Shame
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Mid S8, House and Cuddy have an unexpected encounter.
1. Chapter 1

Shame

House was having a lousy day.

Okay, he was having a lousy _life_, but today had been particularly grim.

It started when he lost a patient. It would've been bad enough if he had lost the guy due to some incompetence of his own—but it was all basically Foreman's fault. As by-the-book as Cuddy may have been, she was nothing compared to Foreman, who never met a rule he didn't want to strenuously follow. Cuddy knew the value of calculated risks, hell sometimes she found them as exhilarating as House did. ("I love the way your brain works," she had said to him, one night in bed. "You like the way all my body parts work," he had replied, diving for her. "True," she had giggled.)

What was so annoying was, Foreman had been in the trenches with him, part of the team! He knew that sometimes you needed to take a risk to crack the case. "That was when I was a doctor," Foreman said. "Now I'm an administrator."

So the radical heart procedure that House lobbied for wasn't done and the patient had died. The autopsy showed that House's treatment might have worked.

Then, to add insult to injury, Wilson had lost a patient earlier in the day and was irritable, having none of House's pity party.

"You're not the only one who lost a patient today, you know," he had groused.

"I know," House said. "But you're used to it."

"Screw you," Wilson had replied, taking his lunch tray and storming away.

Then, House was late to a meeting with his parole officer and the moron actually had the nerve to say to him, "Do you want to go back to jail? Because you're acting a whole lot like a guy who wants to go back to jail."

"That's it!" House snarled. "You nailed it. I miss jail. It's a laugh riot! It's better than _Cats_!"

He'd been popping Vicodin like candy all day, but it wasn't making a dent on his misery. He figured a stiff drink, or several, would help, or at least numb him a little more.

And then fucking Sullivan's was closed for a private party.

The world hated him.

#####

A lot of people were surprised that Cuddy had stayed in Princeton after the incident. But as she saw it, he wasn't going to drive her away. She was the victim. If anyone should move, it should be him. Besides, there was no reason to disrupt Rachel's life even further.

The house was repaired—it took nearly five months, roughly half of House's jail sentence. Cuddy had gotten a job as the VP of Admin at Trenton General. It was a good job, it paid as well as her position at PPTH, although it had less prestige and power.

"But what if you run into him?" people asked her. She would just laugh: House's behavior was totally predictable. He went to work, he went to Sullivan's, sometimes he went to Off Track Betting. There was that one diner on Route 1 with the good onion rings he liked. ("How can you eat that shit?" she used to say. "How can you NOT?" he replied, smiling, his mouth full.) But mostly he stayed in his apartment.

There would be no accidentally running into him at the latest hotspot.

Except for…were her eyes playing tricks on her?

She was out with some colleagues after work—this one guy Cliff had been super flirty with her, begging her to join the gang at this new restaurant called Bistro de Coin, until she had finally relented. And now Gregory House, or his exact twin, was limping toward her table.

#####

"It felt creepy just sitting at the bar staring at you, so I thought I'd come over and say hi," he said, jangling his good leg nervously.

He looked terrible, even by his own poor standards: Borderline gaunt, hair and beard both overgrown, clothing that looked like it had come straight from the dirty hamper. The leg jangling made him look like a junkie.

"What are you doing here?" Cuddy said, shocked.

"I. . .Sullivan's was closed for a private party and I nee—was in the mood for a drink."

He was looking at her with a peculiar combination of hope and fear.

"Frankly, I was hoping I'd never have to see you again," Cuddy said, much to the shock of her tablemates.

"Is this _him_?" someone said.

Cuddy didn't reply. She just stared at him, bewildered.

"Dr. House, why don't you go back to the bar and leave us alone?" Cliff said, taking charge.

House gave a derisive snort.

"Stay out of it, Skippy. This is none of your business," he said.

"You're clearly bothering Dr. Cuddy."

"I'm sure your horrible aftershave is bothering her too," House said. "But you don't see me asking _you_ to leave."

"I see you haven't changed a bit. . ." Cuddy said.

House gripped his cane a little tighter.

"Can I…talk to you for a second?" he said. It was clear that he was barely able to keep it together. His knuckles were white where he clutched his cane. His face was sweaty.

"No," Cuddy said.

"Please."

"Dr. House, if you continue bothering us, I'll have no choice but to call over the manager," Cliff said.

"Not…the _manager_!" House said. "What's he going to do? Give me a lousy table? Not accept my Groupon deal?"

"If you ever cared about Lisa at all, you'd leave her alone," another one of Cuddy's dinner companions said. They were all staring at House like he had two heads.

He turned to Cuddy, ignoring all their condemning eyes.

"I haven't tried to contact you," he said. "Not once. I have to get some credit for that."

"No," Cuddy said. "You don't."

"Let's just leave," Cliff said. "We can go to Dino's for dessert."

Cuddy nodded.

"Please Cuddy. Five minutes. You owe me that. Five minutes of your time."

"I don't owe you a thing," Cuddy said.

"You're right," House said, contritely. "But I'm asking. I'm asking for five minutes. Because I once meant something to you. A lifetime ago."

Cuddy swallowed hard, looked at House, and then her tablemates.

She inhaled.

"I'll meet you at Dino's," she said.

"You sure?" Cliff said, stunned.

"I'm positive," she said. "Go ahead. I'll catch up."

They all got up warily, cast some anxious looks in Cuddy's direction, and finally left.

He sat down across from her.

"You look . . .incredible," he said.

"You look like shit," she said.

"I know. I … rough day."

"Rough life," she replied, not kindly.

He shrugged in agreement.

"How are you?" he said.

"Is there something specific you wanted to say to me?" she said. "Otherwise I'm going to go."

"What I want to say is: I'm sorry," he said. "I've tried to think of a more eloquent way to put that. But there it is: I'm sorry."

"Fine. You're sorry. Can I go now?" She began to get up.

"No. Wait! Please. . . Do you know how many times I wanted to call you? Knock on your door? Do you know how many letters I wrote and didn't send? I stayed away because I knew you didn't want to hear from me."

"Still true."

"But seeing you tonight. It feels like…fate."

"You don't believe in fate."

"I didn't. Until tonight."

She snorted.

"Come back to my place with me," he said. "So we can be alone. To talk."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Please."

"If you think I'm going to your place, you're mad."

"I _am_ mad. I think we've already established that fact."

"And dangerous."

"I'm only a danger to myself."

She squinted at him.

"Is that a threat? Go back to your place or you'll hurt yourself?"

"I didn't mean like that. But if that'll get you to come home with me…" he said, with a sad smile.

"It won't."

"Cuddy, I would never hurt you again. You know that, right? That wasn't me. You _know me_."

"I thought I knew you. And I've been beating myself up over how wrong I was."

"You weren't wrong. Please come back to my place so I can explain. . .I hate myself for what I did."

Cuddy looked down.

"I have to meet my friends…" she said, haltingly—and he knew he had her.

"Call them. Tell them you're tired. It was an emotional night. You're turning in early. Please just give me this one chance."

She had once told him she could never resist his eyes, so he looked at her now, intensely, imploringly.

She looked back—and for a moment their eyes locked and they were communicating in that old, nearly telepathic way they used to.

She pulled out her phone and dialed.

"Cliff, I'm exhausted," she said. "I'm going to have to skip dessert and call it a night."

#####

If he had known she was coming over, he would've straightened up. There was a half drained bottle of scotch on the table, a few dirty dishes in the sink, a pair of gym socks bunched up on the floor.

"I can't believe you're really here," he said, hastily shoving the socks under the couch.

"Neither can I," she admitted.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you."

"House. . ."

"Can I get you a drink?"

"I'm fine," she said.

He ignored her. Poured himself some scotch and her a glass of white wine. "Just in case," he said, sliding it her way. "Spending time with me usually drives people to drink."

He chuckled nervously at his own joke, then rubbed his hands on his pants legs.

"I had a lot of time in prison to think about what I did," he said. "Especially when they put me in solitary."

"Solitary?" Concern in her voice. Concern was good.

"Yeah, mostly for my own protection. Turns out, my anti-establishment streak isn't that popular with neo-Nazi types."

"House, did they hurt you?"

"Got roughed up a few times," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

He glanced at her, to see if she was buying his stoic routine.

The look on her face said no.

"Anyway, when I was in solitary it gave me a lot of time to…reflect. And I think this is why I got so upset the night of the, uh, accident."

"Because you thought I had lied to you," she said, matter-of-factly. "You thought I was seeing Jerry. It was, in fact, an informal dinner to even see if I wanted to date him. . ." She gave a bitter laugh. "Needless to say, he never called."

"That was part of it," House said. "But that wasn't the real reason."

"I'm all ears."

"The real reason was because I looked in your window and saw that dinner party and everyone was laughing and drinking wine and being…normal. And I felt like a freak. I had never felt like such a freak in my entire life. I was Golum. I was the fucking Hunchback of Notre Dame, with a limp instead of a hump. I had just spent a week in a hospital bed because I took a drug that hadn't even been through safety trials. I sat in a fucking bathtub and tried to remove tumors from my own leg. And you were having witty repartee and . . .coq au vin."

"Duck breast," Cuddy said, looking down.

"And in that moment, looking through that window, you felt so far away. And I felt like the all the good things in life—you, happiness, normalcy—were not for me. That I didn't deserve them. And I felt an overwhelming sense of …shame. I just kind of snapped."

Cuddy closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry you felt that way, House. I truly am."

"It's no excuse for what I did," he said, blinking at her. "I'm not saying it was. I'm just asking. . .Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

"I don't know," Cuddy admitted. "I can try."

House sighed in relief.

"Trying is much more than I deserve," he said.

There was a long silence.

"Can I ask you something else?" he said finally.

"I guess so."

"Was it all in my imagination? Were were happy? Did you ever really love me?"

Cuddy finally sipped from her glass.

"Of course I loved you," she said quietly. "And yes, we were happy."

"I miss you so much," he said. "It feels like a physical ache. It hurts worse than my leg."

"I miss you too," she admitted. "I…haven't been with another man since we dated. How lame is that? Nobody measures up."

"It's not lame at all," he said, smiling softly. "I don't want any other woman. Only you."

She sighed.

"House, what are we going to do with each other?"

He stood.

"Come here," he said.

And, much to his surprise and delight, she went to him. They held each other closely. He breathed her in, smelled her hair, her skin, felt the wonderful pressure of her tiny, strong body against his.

"I miss the way you touch me," she admitted when they parted.

"I miss touching you," he said.

"So touch me now."

He knew that voice. Throaty. Turned on.

He licked his lips.

"Where?"

"Anywhere you want."

She had unmistakable lust in her eyes. She was wearing tight black jeans. He took his palm and rubbed it against the crotch of her jeans.

Her legs buckled a bit.

"I didn't think you were going to touch me…there," she said, flushing a bit.

"You said anywhere I wanted," he said, looking at her hungrily.

"Now touch me someplace else," she ordered.

She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse. He reached over the fabric, for her breasts, cupped her weight, fingered her nipples until they were hard.

They both began breathing heavily.

"Kiss me," she said.

"Where?" he said hoarsely.

"Anywhere you want."

He hesitated.

Then found her mouth with his own, so relieved and aroused when her tongue swirled inside him, and her hands caressed his face, he almost came on the spot.

"Cuddy," he said. "I want you so badly."

"I want you, too," she said.

So he picked her up, carried to the bedroom, just like that first time.

And everything reminded him of that night—his own eagerness, and his thrill over how responsive she was: How wet she got, how her purrs turned into moans, how her legs spread widely and then her back arched, inviting him deeper and deeper inside her.

She came first, a loud gasp, almost a sob, and he was right behind her, his whole body shuddering, convulsing and he wanted to cry but he didn't, just held her tightly, not wanting to ever let go.

#####

In the morning, she was gone.

He hadn't remembered her leaving. Had she snuck out after sex, when he fell asleep? Had she said goodbye?

He wandered into the living room. Her wine glass was still there, but barely touched. He looked for a note. There was none.

Still, he couldn't help but to smile to himself. She had been there. In his apartment, in his bed. She had _forgiven_ him. Everything was going to get better. From this moment on.

He was impatient all day long, expecting a phone call, an email, anything. But it never came.

"You okay?" Wilson said over lunch. "You seem…distracted."

"Still thinking about that patient," House said.

"Right," Wilson said. "Of course."

When he got home, he paced—which was an exceedingly dumb thing for a guy with a bum leg to do, but he couldn't stay still.

By 9 pm, he couldn't take it anymore. He hopped on his bike and knocked on her door.

She looked stunned, and bit angry to see him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Why did you leave so abruptly last night?" he said.

"House, you know why I left."

"We could've had breakfast together."

"I don't think Bistro de Coin even serves breakfast," she said.

"No," he said. "I meant at my place."

"Why on earth would I have breakfast at your place?" she said, baffled.

"I thought after last night, after the…intimacy we shared."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she said, her face a mask of confusion.

He stared at her.

Was she messing with him? She looked totally serious. Still a little pissed. His heart began pounding loudly in his chest.

"You came home with me last night. . . ._Right_?"

Her face fell.

"Oh House. Oh. . .no. Not again."

She touched his arm.

He suddenly felt weak, dizzy. He felt like he was about to pass out.

"But we…" he started.

"We didn't do anything last night. I went to Dino's for dessert with my friends. I never went anywhere with you."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Just a small chapter to get us from there to here.**

Cuddy didn't know what to do.

House had slid to the ground, almost in slow motion, and was now sitting on her front stoop, his head in his hands, looking distraught.

He was the man who had nearly ruined her life, could've killed her, actually. But her need to comfort him—even now—was instinctive, atavistic. Reluctantly, she sat down next to him.

"You're going to be okay," she said, firmly.

He didn't say anything, didn't look up from his hands.

"You had a setback. . .That's all."

He blinked. She wasn't sure he could actually hear her.

"How many pills did you take?"

Still no reply.

She reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a bottle of Vicodin. There were two pills left. The prescription had been filled yesterday.

"This has to stop, House," she said. She felt frustrated, helpless.

She touched his arm.

He recoiled, his shame manifesting as anger. "Don't touch me!" he snapped.

She withdrew her hand. Sometimes he really was like a wounded animal.

"Okay, House. . ." she said, keeping her voice soothing. "It's okay."

They sat side-by-side like that for a long while.

Finally, he looked at her.

"I'm pathetic."

"No, House. You're not. You had a setback."

"A setback," he repeated bitterly. "It's more than a setback. I'm losing my mind. I'm broken. Unfixable."

"You're just sick House. And you need to get better."

His Adam's apple tensed in his throat.

"I'm scared," he admitted.

He had never said that to her before. She shuddered, involuntarily, because she was scared, too—for him.

She put her arm over his shoulder and this time he let her.

"You're strong," she said. "Stronger than you know. You'll get through this."

He looked at her.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, truthfully. Then she stood up. "Come into the house."

"And do what?" he said. "Break bread in the dining room that you had to rebuild because of me?"

She gaped at him, shocked he would bring that up.

"I'm going to go," he said, standing up. "I've darkened your doorstep more than enough—quite literally."

He began limping away. She grabbed his arm.

"If you think I'm letting you just get back on your motorcycle and drive away from here you don't know me very well."

He spun around.

"Why not? What if I just kept driving until I drove off a cliff? Who would care? Isn't it time we all admitted that the world be better off if I wasn't in it?"

"Tell that to the countless lives you've saved!"

He gave a queasy laugh.

"That's all I am. A good doctor. A brain in a fucking jar. Except now not even my brain is working anymore. Do you know what it's like to be me right now? I'm not even sure this conversation is happening."

"It is," she said. "I'm right here. We're together in front of my house and we're going to go inside and we're going to get you help."

He sighed.

"I'm so tired," he said, closing his eyes a bit.

"Then come inside."

His shoulders slumped a bit and he exhaled.

Finally, obediently, he followed her inside.

####

Cuddy was on the phone in the next room. He couldn't hear what she was saying. He heard murmurs. A few words: "Just showed up" "I've never seen him this bad."

He closed his eyes, sipped the tea she had given him. (Herbal tea: What to give to the man who has…nothing.)

Her house felt nice—comforting, familiar. The blanket she had given him smelled of that organic laundry detergent she bought—with the lavender. Maybe she would take care of him. Maybe she would fix him again.

He must've dozed off, because when he woke up there were more murmured voices. His eyes blinked into focus.

Wilson was standing there, talking to Cuddy.

_Of course she had called Wilson. Of course she wasn't going to take care of him._

"How you feeling?" Wilson said.

House scratched his head.

"Umm, did you see _A Beautiful Mind_?"

"You're not schizophrenic House. You're just strung out."

"We can't really be sure of that, can we? And by we, I mean, myself and my 11 alters."

They both stared at him.

"I'm kidding," he said. "I only have 10 alters."

Cuddy shook her head. There was a reason why people never noticed when House was on a verge of a mental breakdown. He tended to wisecrack his way through them.

"I called Nolan," Wilson said.

"I assume you don't mean Nolan Ryan, Hall of Fame pitcher. Cause that would be cool. I've always wanted to meet him."

"I'm taking you back to Mayfield in the morning."

House bowed his head.

"Where I belong—clearly. I wonder if my parole officer will come visit me there, or if they'll give me a day pass?"

Both Cuddy and Wilson sighed grimly.

"The extremely fucked up nature of my life really comes into sharp focus when I put it like that, huh?" House said, with mock cheer.

"House," Cuddy said, gesturing toward Rachel's door. "Keep your voice down."

As if on cue, a pair of small legs, in footie pajamas, emerged from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes with balled up fists.

"I heard voices," she said.

Rachel first saw her mother and Wilson. Then she looked up, saw House, and ran to him.

"Howse!" she said, enveloping him in a pint-sized bear hug.

"Nice to see you, too, Rachel," Wilson said, ironically.

House swallowed hard and looked at Cuddy gratefully. This was not the hug of a child who had been hearing her mother badmouth someone for the past year. Cuddy nodded at him—and for a brief moment, something coursed between them, a kind of mutual understanding.

"Who is this grown woman and what has she done with Rachel?" House managed to joke, holding Rachel at arm's length.

"It's me!" Rachel said, grinning at him. "Rachel!"

"Ohmygod, it IS you!" he said.

She giggled, then squinted at him.

"Are you still sick?" she said. "You look sick."

House sighed. _Still_ sick. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been bleeding out in a bathtub.

"Yeah, baby. House isn't feeling that well," Cuddy said, swooping in and putting her arm around Rachel protectively.

"What's wrong?" Rachel said. "Do you have fever?"

"Not that kind of sick," House said. "I'm sick in the he—"

"House is going to a treatment center tomorrow and they're going to make him all better," Cuddy interrupted, hastily.

"A treatment center?" Rachel said, confused.

"A place where they treat people who have the same illness he has."

"Is the treatment going to hurt?" Rachel asked.

"You have no idea," House said.

"Oh," she said. Then she whispered something in Cuddy's ear. Cuddy smiled a bit and nodded. Rachel scampered away. When she came back, she was holding a teddy bear in her hands—well-loved, with patchy fur from having been washed too many times, and missing one of its two black button eyes.

"This is Milo," Rachel said, handing the bear to House. "He makes me feel better when I'm sick."

Cuddy expected a typical House response: "Teddy bears don't make you feel better, medicine does." Or "Real men don't carry stuffed animals."

Instead, he looked at the bear curiously. "Yeah?" he said, like he half-believed her.

"Yeah," Rachel said.

"But if you give the bear to me, who's going to make you feel better if you get sick?"

Rachel gave that some thought.

"You need him more than I do," she said. Wilson and Cuddy exchanged a look.

House tucked the bear under his arm.

"Yeah…I probably do."

"You have to go back to bed, Rach," Cuddy said. "It's late. We have some grownup stuff we need to discuss."

"Can I visit Howse in the treatment center?" Rachel said.

"No visitors allowed," Cuddy improvised.

"Can I see him when he gets better?"

"Um . . ." House said, glancing at Cuddy.

"We'll see," Cuddy said, guiding Rachel back to her room.

When they were out of earshot, House said: "Cuddy freaking out and dumping me on you: Just like old times."

"She's worried about you," Wilson said. "_I'm_ worried about you."

"And we're three-for-three," House said.

"How are you doing now? Any hallucinations?"

"Funny thing abut hallucinations. You don't always know when you're having them. But what is Abraham Lincoln doing here?"

"Very funny, House."

"Hey, if you can't laugh at your own complete break from reality, what can you laugh at?" Then he frowned. "So what did Nolan say?"

"He was surprised. I had to fill him in a lot. He didn't know you had…relapsed. He hadn't even heard you went to prison."

"And I here I thought he had a Google alert set up in my name. I'm disappointed."

Wilson hesitated, then said:

"Cuddy didn't go into details about tonight's. . . episode. You want to fill me in?"

House attempted a laugh.

"The usual. Cuddy forgave me and we had sex. I'll give my subconscious some credit: I'm always getting laid."

At that moment, Cuddy came back into living room. House wasn't sure if she had heard him or not.

"She's not going to get any sleep," Cuddy said. "She's bouncing off the walls. She was very excited to see you."

"I was excited to see her, too," House said, eyeing her hopefully.

Cuddy ignored him.

"I hate to break up the class reunion, but it's late…" she said. House looked at his watch. It was 1:30 am.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Shall we?" Wilson said, gesturing toward the door.

House turned to Cuddy. "Thank you," he said. "You didn't have to help me and you did. It . . . meant a lot."

"It's okay. I'm just glad you're getting the help you need." She tried to keep her voice formal—like she was giving encouragement to a stranger.

"Right," he said, sadly.

"Take care of yourself House," she said.

And she watched them walk down her driveway and get into Wilson's car.

She rubbed her temples, feeling like she might cry.

Gregory House had this incredibly annoying habit of making her care about him.


	3. Chapter 3

About four weeks after House returned to Mayfield, Cuddy got an unexpected phone call.

"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy," a man's booming baritone said. "This is Dr. Darryl Nolan, I'm the director of patient services at Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital."

"I know who you are. . ." Cuddy said, gripping the phone tighter. This could only be bad news.

"I'm calling about—"

"Is he okay?" she blurted out.

"Yes, Dr. House is fine. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Cuddy exhaled. So House wasn't dead. (If anyone could find a way to kill themselves at a mental institute, it was House.)

"He was in pretty bad shape when he arrived here, as you know," Nolan continued. "But we're making progress."

"Good," Cuddy said, regaining her composure. "But I'm still not quite sure why we're talking right now."

"I'm calling to ask you a favor."

Cuddy wrinkled her brow.

"What kind of favor?"

"I think it would be advantageous, therapeutically speaking, if you would pay House a visit here at Mayfield."

"A visit?"

"Yeah, nothing official. Just come see him, on visitor's day."

Cuddy almost laughed out loud.

"But why on earth would I do that?"

"Because…he has a lot he needs to say to you. Things he imagined he said to you in his subconscious, but never really did."

Cuddy felt flustered.

"I. . .I. . .is this mandatory?"

Nolan chuckled.

"Of course not. Like I said, I'm asking for a favor. On House's behalf."

"What if I'm not … prepared to do House any favors?"

"But you already did, right? Took him in, encouraged him, called Dr. Wilson."

"That was the least I could do! I mean, he showed up my doorstep in horrible shape. What was I supposed to do? Leave him out there?"

"Frankly yes. Or call the cops, not his best friend."

Cuddy sighed. Of course Nolan was right.

"Truthfully?" she said. "I'd rather not see him again."

"Oh," Nolan said. "I'm surprised. I was under the impression you still cared about him."

"I never said I didn't," Cuddy snapped.

"Dr. Cuddy, you know a lot about House's struggles with addiction and mental health, so I'm going to be frank with you."

"Okay. . ."

"Three years ago, when I first treated House, you were front and center in his hallucination. Do you remember what that hallucination was about?"

"Um, sex?" she said, feeling embarrassed.

Nolan chuckled again.

"Yes, sex. But what else?"

"It was about me helping him get off drugs."

"Right. . .it was a fantasy of being saved by you."

Cuddy was quiet.

"This hallucination was different. It was a fantasy of…forgiveness. House's innermost desire is that you forgive him. He hates himself for what he's done to you. And for better or for worse, his sense of his own worth as a man is very much wrapped in what you think of him."

"I know that. . ." Cuddy said. That old feeling—guilt, concern, regret—was throbbing at her temples.

"I'm working on that. He needs to find strength from the inside out, not the other way around. But I do think he won't be able to move forward until you accept his apology."

"What if I don't think he deserves forgiveness?" Cuddy said.

"Everyone deserves forgiveness."

"What about murderers? Do they?"

"You don't think House is a murderer, do you?" Nolan said.

"No," Cuddy said softly. "Of course not."

"Then let him apologize to you."

"It's not that easy," Cuddy said.

"Then explain it to me."

Cuddy tried to find the right words:

"I've known House for more than 20 years," she said. "It's not an exaggeration to say, there was a time when he invaded nearly my every waking thought. And that was _before _we were dating! It's taken a lot of effort to …disentangle myself from House. Leaving PPTH helped. Reflecting on the car crash—and how much worse it could've been—helped, too. But when he showed up at my door last month, some of those old, familiar feelings came flooding back. I've worked hard to not be in love with Gregory House, you know? I don't want to let him back in."

"That makes sense," Nolan said.

"Thank you for understanding."

"Dr. Cuddy?" Nolan paused, as if something had just dawned on him. "Before I let you go. Does a teddy beard named Milo mean anything to you?"

Cuddy swallowed.

"Yes. Why?"

"House has brought it to his therapy session a few times. Said it was his good luck charm. I thought you might know something about it."

Cuddy blinked back a tear.

"It belongs to my little girl. She gave it to House."

"Oh," he said. "That explains it."

She hesitated.

"This visit," she said. "Can I think about it?"

"Of course you can."

"Good. Let me . . .sleep on it and get back to you."

"Take all the time you need."

"Oh and Dr. Nolan?"

"Yes Dr. Cuddy?"

"Nicely played with the teddy bear."

Nolan chuckled.

"I was only prepared to pull it out if absolutely necessary."

#####

"I have something to tell you," Nolan said.

"Ominous words," House said.

"Not necessarily."

"If it was something easy, you'd just tell me. You wouldn't first tell me you had something to tell me."

"Good point," Nolan said, with a grin.

Treating House was different the second time around. The detox had been protracted and painful—as it always was when the body went to war with itself. But this time, once the detox was complete, House made no motions of getting out, no protestations that he was in the wrong place. In therapy, he talked so much about his own worthlessness that Nolan had flagged his file as a suicide risk. As House saw it, the events of the last two years had reinforced his own theories about the misery of life: Happiness is a cruel hoax because it's always temporary, always taken from you.

"It wasn't taken from you, House. You let it be taken."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" House had groaned.

At the same time, House had actually become a better patient. More humble, more willing to open up, less sure that he had all the answers. Nolan attributed this to his relationship with Dr. Cuddy and her little girl. Once you've given and received love, especially when a child is involved, it changes you.

"I spoke to Dr. Cuddy," Nolan said now.

House looked up, taken off guard.

"You what?"

"I called Dr. Cuddy and asked her if she would come visit you."

"And after she stopped laughing hysterically, what did she say?"

"She didn't say yes. But she didn't say no either. She said she'd think about it."

"And I'm sure she'll be thinking about it for a long time."

Nolan looked at him.

"Yesterday morning she called me. She's coming on Tuesday."

House's mouth dropped open.

"This is a first," Nolan said. "Gregory House, speechless."

"She's coming _here_?"

"Yes."

House's whole body tensed.

"I…I don't want her to come."

That threw Nolan a curve.

"Why?" he said.

"Because, look at me. I'm a fucking mess. I'm on a suicide watch." He glanced at him knowingly. "You thought I didn't know that, didn't you?"

"I always assume you know everything, Dr. House," Nolan said.

"I don't want her to see me in a fucking mental institution? Is that so hard to understand?"

"I would think that seeing her in a mental institution would be better than not seeing her at all," Nolan said.

House looked at his feet.

"Every time I think about that night on her doorstep, I want to stab myself in the eye with a hot poker."

"Dr. Cuddy doesn't hold you accountable for the things you said and did when you were sick."

"If only that were true…" House said, bitterly.

"You're talking about the car accident," Nolan said.

"Yup. Upon reflection, I wasn't exactly in tip-top mental shape at the time."

"No," Nolan said. "I suppose you weren't. I wish you had called me instead of just…reacting."

"Trust me doc. If I ever get out of here, you'll be on speed dial in my car."

"_When_ you get out of here, House. You're making progress."

"Oh yeah, I'm the poster child for mental health."

"I think seeing Dr. Cuddy will help with that."

"How so?"

"I think you have a lot to say to her."

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Of course you do."

House squinted at him.

"My hallucination," he said. "You want me to tell her everything I said in my hallucination."

"I think the part about you feeling like Gandolf. . ."

"Golum," House corrected, shaking his head.

"_Golum_—sorry. Never read the books."

"There were movies, too! And comic books. And video games. And international conventions."

Nolan shrugged. "The point is, she needs to hear that stuff," he said. "_I _needed that to hear that stuff in order to properly treat you. Understanding your deep-rooted sense of 'otherness' has been an important tool in our therapy."

"Cuddy's not going to care about that. She's not going to care that I feel like a freak because she already sees me that way herself."

"I don't believe that."

"It's why she dumped me. And I proceeded to prove her right with every single move I made after that."

"And now we get back to the self-fulfilling prophecy we've discussed so many times in here. You see yourself as an outcast, a reject—so you behave that way. How many have I told you this, House: People want to know you. They want to get close to you. You push everyone away."

"Sometimes they push first," House said, quietly.

"You should see Dr. Cuddy on Tuesday. It'll be good for you. For both of you."

House shrugged.

"You're the expert," he said.

Nolan smiled triumphantly.

"You see? Progress!"

######

The nurse sized up Cuddy.

"Dr. House is excited for your visit," she said, in a girl-talk kind of way. "He arrived early. He's been sitting there for a while."  
She pointed to the waiting room, where House was sitting, drumming his fingers on a round table.

Cuddy took a deep breath.

He looked much better than the last time she'd seen him. He'd filled out a bit, like maybe he'd been working out. He was wearing a long-sleeved navy blue tee-shirt and grey sweats. His hair, a bit shorter, was visible in tufts under a grey knit cap. When he saw her, he stood up.

"You came," he said, simply.

She gave a sheepish smile.

"I came."

"I'm glad," he said.

For a moment, there was some uncertainty—would they hug, shake hands? But House diffused the tension by saying, "It's a nice day. I thought maybe I'd give you the grand tour—such as it was—and then we could go sit outside and talk?

"Lead the way," she said.

So he took her around.

"This is the cafeteria," he said. "Where they bring us the finest meats and cheeses. And by finest, I mean least flavorful."

The dining room was actually pretty nice. Dark wood tables with old-fashioned floral table-cloths, encased in glass, and sturdy chairs.

They kept walking.

"This is the med station, where I get an elaborate cocktail of meds every day, designed to …keep me off meds." He turned to the nurse behind the counter. "Tell Dr. Cuddy what a model patient I am, Rick."

"The best. He always swallows his medication right away, without questioning the dosage, and _never_ gives me any grief whatsoever," Rick said, with a wink.

"Thank you, Rick. . .Moving right along, here is the patient lounge, curiously without lounge chairs. Or patients."

As if on cue, a skinny guy in oversized pajamas entered the lounge, a copy of _Harry Potter_ _and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ tucked under his arm.

"Hey House," he said. "When are we playing chess again?"

"Have you gotten any better since the last time we played?"

"No," the guy admitted.

"Then never."

They kept walking. Cuddy wasn't sure if he was actually proud of the facility or just so nervous he needed something to do. But she was reminded of how much fun House could be, when he put his mind to it. He could even make a trip to a mental hospital an adventure.

"And this little slice of heaven is my room."

The room was tidy, spartan. She was surprised to see someone else, a bearded man with an owlish face, lying on one of the beds.

"Oh," she said, when she saw him. "Hi."

"Don't mind him. That's Oscar. We call him the anti-Alvie. He doesn't talk. It's like living with one of the guards at Buckingham Palace."

He waved a hand in front of Oscar's face. "How bout those Yankees?" he said. Complete silence. "If a building was on fire and you could only save the Dalai Lama or Gisele Bundchen, who would you save?"

More silence.

"See?" Then he gave a half shrug. "The ironic thing, I still find him a better conversationalist than most of the patients here."

House smiled. "So, um, that's it. . . Shall we go outside?"

"Yes," Cuddy said.

As they left the room, Cuddy took one last look at House's bed. Neatly made, hospital corners ("Colonel House insisted," House had once explained to her), and a bedraggled looking stuffed bear, propped up against the pillow.

#####

They went outside, sat on a bench and House looked at her, anxiously.

"Dr. Nolan wants me to tell you all the things I told you in my hallucination," he said. "Do you want to hear them?"

"I do if you want to tell them to me," she said.

"I think I do."

He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for something unpleasant.

"Are you familiar with The Lord of the Rings?" he started.

So he launched into everything. His apology. His feelings of self-doubt. The sense that normalcy was always going to allude him. His overwhelming sense of shame.

"I know none of this excuses anything that I did. But I just wanted to explain myself. . ." he finished.

Cuddy leaned back on the bench. It was a nice autumn day. Two squirrels were chasing each other up and down a tree. She watched them for a second, before responding.

"I'm glad you told me," she said finally.

In fact, it was exactly what she had feared: She felt close to him, touched by his candor, by his sense of isolation, by his love for her. In that moment, she wanted him back in her life. It would so easy. Just reach for him, hug him. And he'd be back. Like he was never gone.

Of course, House had no idea she was thinking such things. He thought she still hated him. He peered at her expectantly.

"Do you think you could ever find it in your heart to forgive me?" he said.

She nodded, slowly.

"I do House. I think I really do."

He exhaled, then looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.

"And . . . us?"

"There is no more us," she said.

"I know. I know. . .But maybe… friends?"

"You once said that friends was the last thing you wanted to be," she said, mirthfully.

"A lot has changed since then," he said. "I'd jump at the chance at friends. Friends would be like scaling a fucking mountain for me."

"I make no promises," she said, standing up. "You get healthy, get out of here…and we'll see."

"I'm cured!" he said, popping up, with a grin.

She allowed herself to laugh and then allowed herself to hug him.

"I wish I could quit you, Gregory House."

He inhaled her neck, the smell of her hair, which he knew he probably shouldn't do, but he couldn't help himself.

"And I'm so fucking glad you can't."

#####

Two months later, he got out, resumed work and sent her an text message.

"I'm healthy, I'm out. I seem to recall there was talk of being friends?"

And she wrote back: "How bout text friends, for now?"

"Less scaling a mountain and more limping up a small hill," he wrote back. "But I'll take it."

"How are you feeling?"

"Determined," he wrote back.

"That's the best news I've heard all day."

#####

So House began texting her. Not every day, like he wanted to, but once in a while.

He "live-texted" a Foreman State of the Hospital address: "He actually just used the phrase, 'Under my steady leadership,'" he wrote. Then later: "Ohmygod, he's pausing for applause."

He sent her a text at 4 pm on a Sunday to tell her that Dirty Dancing was on TV.

"I don't need to watch that every time it's on TV!" she texted back. Then, a follow-up: "What channel?"

He texted her a bit of hospital gossip involving Nurse Jeffrey and the very married Dr. Green: "It's very late season Grey's Anatomy around here lately," he said. "But more gay."

Sometimes even a little flirtation crept into their banter.

"This is a real thing. That people eat," he wrote next to a picture of Heinz Spotted Dick pudding he found at the grocery store.

"Some people will put _anything_ in their mouths," Cuddy wrote back, with a little winky emoticon.

"Thank God," House replied.

"Of course you would go there."

"Hey, you went there!"

"Okay, maybe I did."

Sometimes their conversations were short. Sometimes they went on for several minutes. But they all had something in common: House initiated them.

He tried not to take that too personally. But it was hard. Was she simply humoring him, because she feared he might relapse? Or did she really care about him?

And then one day, about two months after he got out of Mayfield, Cuddy sent him a picture of Rachel in a pirate's costume, with the message: "This is what she chose to wear on class photo day. I blame you!"—and his heart swelled three times its size.

He and Cuddy may've been slowly creeping back into each other's lives, but clearly she didn't see House as a confidante—at lest not yet. House found this out for sure when he had lunch with Wilson a few weeks after the pirate text.

"Have you heard the news about Arlene?"

"Arlene Cuddy?"

"Yeah. Stage three pancreatic cancer. Inoperable."

"Shit," House said. He felt horrible. And then he felt even worse because he was less upset about Arlene and more upset that Cuddy hadn't told him.

"How's she handling it? Cuddy I mean."

"As well as can be expected. She's pretty broken up about it."

"Thanks for telling me."

"And House?"

"What?"

"You're not going to meddle, right? If Cuddy wanted you to know, she would've told you."

"I'm insulted you would even have to ask."

######

Needless to say, House ignored Wilson's advice. That night, when he got home, he called Cuddy.

He was relieved when she actually answered.

"I heard about Arlene," he said.

"I figured you would eventually…" she sighed.

"You okay?"

"So-so."

"Do you want me to look at the files? Confirm the diagnosis?"

"No, it's unnecessary House. It's a pretty clear-cut case."

"Maybe you can send me the scans all the same. Just for my own peace of mind."

"Okay," she said wearily.

Then was a brief silence.

"I want to see you," he said.

"That's not necessary House."

"I know it isn't. But I do."

"I don't think. . ."

"Just once, I want to be there for you. I want to be the person you lean on—not literally of course, because I'll topple over."

She chuckled. The first time she had laughed since Arlene's diagnosis.

"What are you doing right now?" she said, finally.

"I'm grabbing my keys and coming to see you."

_To be continued…._


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for reading and commenting on this story, Huddy Nation. Sometimes, after 170 fics, I feel like I'm running on fumes, but your enthusiasm always keeps me going. A tiny bit of this story was previously used in my own The Devil Wears Housecoats. (It's not plagiarism if you steal from yourself, right?). Anyway, hope you all enjoy the ending.- atd**

She came to the door in a tee-shirt and jeans, no makeup, looking tired.

She gave him a weak smile.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said back.

They both stood there, awkwardly, still not quite knowing how to act in front of each other. There was no blueprint for this new phase of their relationship. No rule book. But if House had been hoping for a hug—or, in his wildest dreams, for her to dissolve into tears in his arms—it was clearly not coming. (On the other hand, he needed to focus on the positive: Few people got to see her dressed down, unguarded, vulnerable. In its own way, it was a kind of intimacy.)

"I'm drinking," she said, holding up a bottle of wine and ushering him inside. "You want some?"

"I'll pass. Nolan seems to be under the impression that I should avoid all addictive substances," he said. "He's SUCH a killjoy."

Cuddy nodded, approvingly.

"Good for you. But you don't mind if I….?" she gestured toward her glass.

"Knock yourself out."

"I've got mom's scan up on the computer," she said, with a cock of her head toward her office. "If you want to take a look at it."

"Sure," he said, rubbing his hands on his pants legs nervously.

Last time he'd been to her house, he was so out of it, he hadn't noticed the renovation. This time, he did. The dining room was completely new—home improvement by way of car wreck. New hardwood floors. New table and chairs. New Turkish rug. She had even removed the wood beam he had crashed into. It gave the room a larger, more expansive feel.

"Looks better, huh?" she said, noticing him noticing. "I should probably thank you."

"Not funny," he said.

"No," she agreed with a half-shrug. "I guess not."

Now they were in her office—haunted by memories of House trying to coax her away from the computer and into the bedroom with him. ("All work and no play makes Cuddy a very unfulfilled girl," he would say, kissing her neck.) Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes things got so heated they had sex, right there, on the desk.

He shook away that thought and looked at the scan.

It was, regrettably, a rather textbook case of late-stage pancreatic cancer.

"Oh," he said.

Cuddy frowned. She had been holding out the tiniest shred of hope. Seeing his face, she knew not to hope anymore.

"Yeah," she said. "That's what I thought."

If Arlene were a young woman, he might suggest aggressive treatment: chemo and radiation. But she was 72. Mostly, when it came to someone her age, it was about minimizing pain and maximizing comfort.

"Is she going to …?"

"Just lie down and accept her death?" Cuddy said, thinking of her mother with a fond smile. "Not Arlene Cuddy. She's going to go out kicking and screaming. We've already had our first chemo session. She complained the whole time. The chair wasn't comfortable. She was thirsty. The magazines weren't good enough. I think one of the nurses quit on the spot."

House laughed.

"Arlene Cuddy: Gleefully terrorizing the medical profession since 1940."

"Don't we know it," Cuddy said, with a smile.

"And the hair loss? I know that can be traumatic."

"Already shaved her head preemptively and bought a red wig. She insists that she's always secretly been a redhead. She's channeling her inner Rita Hayworth."

"Go Arlene."

"She does look pretty good," Cuddy said.

"What about Rachel?" House asked. "Does she understand what's going on?"

"Not really. She knows nana's sick. I don't think she knows how sick."

"Does she want Milo back?" House said, earnestly. "I mean, to give to Arlene?"

Cuddy smiled at him.

"No," she said. "Milo is yours. Rachel wants you to have him."

"Cool," House said. He searched for the right things to say. "And Julia?" he asked, finally. "How's she holding up?"

Cuddy glanced at him, impressed that he would think to ask.

"She's a mess, predictably. All very dramatic. Lots of tears, lots of being too upset to pitch in. I'm the sister who keeps things together, as usual. She's the one who falls apart. These are our assigned roles."

"You can fall apart in front of me anytime," House said. "Falling apart, as you know, is my specialty. I'm board certified."

She laughed.

"Thanks House. I'm really glad you're here."

He blinked at her.

"I am, too."

######

They began talking more often—via text and even phone calls.

One Saturday, about two weeks after House's visit, he asked Cuddy what she was doing for the day.

"Taking mom to chemo," she said. "Good times."

"I could come?" he offered. "Keep you guys company?"

"Oh mom would love that. She doesn't even know we're friends again."

"No time like the present, right? Hey, at least it won't be boring."

"Can't argue with that," Cuddy said with a shrug. "I guess she's got to find out eventually."

So he showed up. Arlene was sitting in a chair, knitting, as the chemicals were being pumped into her bloodstream. Cuddy was in a waiting chair, typing something onto her laptop.

When Arlene saw House, her face contorted in a mixture of shock and anger.

"What the hell is he doing here?" she barked. The room had the hushed, respectful hum of doctor's offices and libraries. Her piercing voice broke the tranquility. The other patients looked at her, annoyed.

"Mom, I invited him," Cuddy said, in a quiet voice that she hoped would be contagious.

Arlene glared at her.

"Don't tell me you guys are…?"

"Just friends, Arlene. Chillax," House said. "We are not doing the horizontal mamba."

"Yet," Arlene groaned "This is my worst nightmare." She put her head in her hands, dramatically. "Why me?"

"I figured the only thing more powerful than cancer was your hate toward me. So let it all out. Let the rage therapy begin!"

"When did they even let you out of prison?" she said. "Aren't degenerates like you supposed to behind bars?"

"Prison was so 2011. Rehab was 2012. And now my new favorite pastime is stalking you!"

He walked up to her, checked the dosage of her meds.

"They should probably up the DTICs by 20 milligrams," he said to Cuddy. She nodded.

Then he bent toward Arlene.

"What other meds are you on?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not a doctor."

"Good point," House said. "Why should you possibly take an active interest in your own treatment?" He turned back to Cuddy, who rattled off a list of meds that Arlene was taking.

"Good," he said. Then, to Arlene: "And still taking your daily vitamins?"

"Of course," Arlene said. "I'm no dummy."

"Bzzzz!" he said—the game show wrong answer noise. "Actually that was a trick question. The vitamins counteract the chemo. Stop taking them."

"Mom, I told you to stop taking your vitamins two weeks ago!" Cuddy protested.

"That's absurd! What kind of doctor tells you to stop taking vitamins?"

"The one who is your daughter and wants the best for you and the other one who wants the best for …your daughter," House said.

Arlene shrugged grumpily.

"Makes no damn sense."

"You're putting poison in your body to hopefully get better. Nothing makes sense, Arlene."

Then he peered at her.

"Nice hair, by the way," he said. "Very glamorous. Gives off a Rita Hayworth vibe."

And, despite herself, Arlene Cuddy smiled.

######

A few weeks later, Cuddy left Arlene alone at chemo for an hour so she could run some errands.

When she came back, she was shocked to see House sitting in a chair that he had pulled up next to her mother. They were playing gin rummy.

Arlene was wearing a baseball cap that read: "World's Worst Patient."

"You like my new hat?" Arlene said proudly. "A gift from House."

"I'm going to buy her a new one that says, 'World's Worst Card Cheater," House said.

"I'm not cheating! He's just a sore loser!"

"You have a queen of diamonds shoved up your sleeve!"

Arlene looked down.

"I have no idea how that got there," she said, hastily removing it.

"Since when did you two become such buds?" Cuddy said, amused.

"We're not buds," Arlene said. "I'm a captive audience!"

House shrugged.

"Most of my best friends feel they can't escape me—one way or another," he said, eyeing Cuddy.

She laughed.

"Stop jibber-jabbering and play cards, you idiot," Arlene said.

######

House became a regular fixture at Arlene's chemo sessions—playing cards with her, giving her good natured shit—until she got pneumonia and had to be hospitalized.

She was getting weak, looking sunken and ghostly white. And everyone knew it was just a matter of time.

"What's he doing here?" Julia said, stepping into her mother's hospital room one afternoon, shooting an angry glance in House's direction.

"I invited him," Arlene said, in a voice that said, "End of discussion."

That night, House drove Cuddy home. Rachel was spending the night with Julia and the kids.

"My mom's dying," she said to him.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm going to be an…orphan," she said.

"Little Orphan Cuddy," he said, smiling at her affectionately.

"Shut up, it sucks!"

"I know it does," he said, serious this time. "I know."

And then, she hugged him and he held her, tightly, and she did dissolve into tears—just like his wildest dreams—and it was the first time she'd allowed herself to really cry since the diagnosis. And House's shirt got wet and his leg hurt because he was trying so hard to be still and strong—to be her rock— but he didn't care, because he was holding her and she needed him.

When they parted, she wiped her eyes and gave a sheepish laugh.

"Thanks," she said. "I think I needed that."

"So did I."

"I guess sometimes falling apart isn't all bad."

#####

Cuddy was torn about whether or not to let Rachel see Arlene.

"I don't want to upset her," Cuddy said to House.

"Life is upsetting," House said. "She's going to learn that sooner or later."

"I was hoping later."

"But she's going to regret not saying goodbye to her grandmother."

Cuddy nodded ruefully.

So she brought Rachel to the hospital the next day. Rachel was wearing a nice new dress—navy blue and white—and her hair was neatly combed, with barrettes.

She hovered outside Arlene's room, tugging at the collar of her dress, looking anxious. All the older grandkids were already inside, along with Julia and her husband Michael.

"Do I have to go in?" Rachel said.

"You don't have to if you really don't want to," Cuddy said hesitantly. "But I wish you would.

"Actually, you kinda do have to," House said, much to Cuddy's surprise.

Rachel gave him a questioning look. "I do?" she said.

"You do," House said. "Because nana wants to say goodbye. And I know you want to say goodbye, too. It's gonna suck, but you're going to do it. Because you're brave."

"I'm brave?" Rachel said.

"Totally. Who tried that oyster off my plate that one time?"

"I did," Rachel said. "It was sooo gross, I cried."

"That was probably a bad move on my part. But you tried it, right? I was 35 before I tried my first oyster. And who fell off her tricycle and dusted herself off and got right back on?"

"I did?"

"That's right. You did. You didn't even have kneepads on. You laughed in the face of kneepads. That's how I know you're going in."

Rachel looked at House, then Cuddy. "I'm brave," she said, almost to herself. Then she took a deep breath—and marched in.

"Thank you," Cuddy mouthed to House, following her.

It wasn't as scary as Rachel thought it would be. Nana looked tiny and weak and the room smelled funny, but she was still nana. She had chocolate mints for Rachel under her pillow, and she squeezed her hand and told her what a big girl she was and how much she loved her and then she said "guess what? pickle butt" which was Rachel's favorite joke and they both laughed.

"I love you, nana," Rachel said, and Cuddy wiped away a tear.

After a brief visit, Arlene grew weary. The nurse said it was time for everyone to clear out.

"Wait," Arlene said, as they all filed out of her room. "I want to talk to him alone." She was gesturing to House.

"Him?" Julia said, annoyed.

"_Me_?" House said, shocked.

"Yeah, you."

So everyone else left and House was standing there, alone with Arlene Cuddy.

"I need you to promise me something," she said, in a voice so weak it was barely audible.

"Anything for you, my favorite little battle-axe."

"I want you to promise me that you won't be a schmuck and that you'll stay sober and take care of them, okay?"

House swallowed hard.

"Okay," he said, nodding. "I promise."

#####

Arlene died three days later.

Because of his leg, House couldn't be a pallbearer and he felt like shit about it.

He arrived at the funeral, with Wilson. Most of the staff of Princeton Plainsboro was there, along with many of the doctors and nurses from Trenton General.

Add to that Arlene's mahjong buddies, and it was a full house.

House spotted Cuddy, wearing all black, her hair pulled up in a bun—tasteful and beautiful as ever. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but she was definitely keeping it together.

House and Wilson were about to take a seat in the back pew when Cuddy gestured in their direction.

"She wants you," Wilson said.

"No," House said, uncertainly. "I'm pretty sure she's gesturing toward you."

"House, get over there," Wilson said, practically giving him a small shove.

So he limped down the aisle, to the front row.

"Will you sit with us?" Cuddy said—and she patted the seat between her and Rachel.

A tiny murmur went through the crowd as House sat next to them.

"Is that him?" House heard some people saying. And "I can't believe she's even talking to him."

House was feeling self-conscious and a bit out of sorts until Rachel, oblivious to the gossip, took her tiny hand and put it on his.

The funeral was nice, with lots of loving tributes and lots of laughs. Everyone, it seemed, had a fond story to share about Arlene, describing her famous obstinance and toughness.

"She was hard on me, my whole life," Cuddy said, her eyes moist, during her eulogy. "And because of that, she made me the woman I am today. I love you, mom."

They sat shiva at Cuddy's house and House was as helpful as he had ever been—filling drinks, collecting dirty plates, answering the door.

"Who is that man and what have you done with Gregory House?" Wilson said to Cuddy, chuckling.

"He's…helping," Cuddy said, smiling.

Later, Cliff, the Trenton General endocrinologist who had the hots for Cuddy, approached her in the kitchen.

"Eight months ago, you're running away from this guy in a restaurant and now he's making like he's your significant other at your mother's funeral?" he said, a slight edge of disapproval in his voice.

Cuddy looked at House, who had been cornered by two of Arlene's mahjong buddies.

"He's been my significant other this whole time," Cuddy said. "It just took me a while to realize it."

It was 10 pm by the time everyone left. Rachel was already in bed. Cuddy collapsed onto the couch, wearily. House was still wandering around, throwing paper plates into the trash.

"Come," she said. "Sit with me."

So he did. He loosened his tie, so it dangled loosely around his neck, and leaned back on the couch.

"Long day," he said, with a sigh.

"Longest day ever."

"You did great," he said to her.

"So did you," she said.

"All I did was stand around admiring you," he said. "I'm good at that. I've had years of practice."

She smiled.

"House, I want to say thank you. For everything. You've been my rock these past few months."

"That's all I've ever wanted to be."

She turned to him.

"I'm so glad you're back in my life."

"I am too."

And then, much to his great surprise, she leaned over and kissed him.

The kiss, although soft and sweet, sent an electric current throughout his entire body. He didn't know how to take it. It was on the lips, her mouth slightly parted. But it still could have been perceived as friendly.

Then Cuddy angled her body a bit, and kissed him again—harder, her tongue inside him—a no-doubt-about-it kiss. He felt himself begin to get excited.

"Stay with me tonight," she whispered.

"Cuddy, we just buried your mother," he protested, cautiously.

"I know. And it's on days like this that you start taking stock of your life, realizing what's important to you. _Who's_ important to you," She caressed his face, kissed him again. "Like you."

"But I don't think. . ."

"I'm not asking for sex—_yet_," she said, with a sultry smile. "Just hold me. Be with me."

He put his arms around her gratefully.

"I accept," he said.

THE END


End file.
